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I am standing in this line waiting for my number to be called, broken egg in my belly, and the man in front of me turns and says, "Hey baby, what's your name? Where do you come from? Will you be around when i get off?" I'm just a woman from uterus number 5 somewhere in Montana. my face won't be one you'll see when you're getting off. Waiting for repair I think of the painful way my egg was shattered a thousand times at once. A quarter of my precious life is spent mourning anonymous babies. I'm only here for retribution, payback the damage that's been done to me and this purple tar gushing from my womb. You say I'm not a woman unless I feel it flow. You don't know a damn thing when I'm in my bloody moods. This thing came from my body, I've worn it for ten years. I've carried it inside me like a million tears. It cries from it's oppression, it wails upon release, but i know until you stop holding doors for me it will never sleep. It will consume my sisters and I just like your bearded face-- it is the symbol of my gender, still the keeper of my gate. I wake to pain at two AM return to bed with cotton stuffed between my legs. To make a proper omelet you gotta break a couple eggs.
